


according to plan

by tonystarktrash



Series: a few rounds verse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Comic Book Science, EVENTUALLY ANYWAYS, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, Pining Steve Rogers, Pym Particles, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Tony Stark Has A Heart, i'll add tags as i go, this is basically canon divergence for every single marvel movie i guess hashtag oops, we are gonna get hand wavy about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27759886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonystarktrash/pseuds/tonystarktrash
Summary: The blond man staring at him from down the frozen foods aisle is looking at Tony as if he is a ghost.No, not even a ghost, more like a…Like some sort of fae creature that’s crawled out from the darkness enveloping the very back of the shelf holding tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, promising to fulfill his deepest desires.a sequel to 'a few rounds'.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: a few rounds verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030671
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a work in progress sequel to 'a few rounds'.

A man is staring at him.

Usually, this would not give Tony Stark cause for much concern – sure, he’s not particularly famous, but his father is. People make their way over to him about once a week, smiling like they’ve been let in on some secret, thinking him to be the great Howard Stark. Tony always hopes, as they wander towards him with a dazed expression on their smiling faces, that the last minute realization that he is lacking a moustache will be enough for them to turn abruptly on their heels and scurry away. Unfortunately, most of the time he’s left to field bizarre questions about his father – why are people so interested in what brand of coffee he drinks in the morning? As if Tony knows, as if, by drinking the same brand of coffee, these curious fans will be overwhelmed with the same inimitable genius that runs Stark Industries. Howard Stark’s usual morning delight is a coffee mug filled with whiskey. Who knows what that inimitable genius would create when sober? 

But this soon-to-be interaction is different.

The blond man staring at him from down the frozen foods aisle is looking at Tony as if he is a ghost.

_No, not even a ghost, more like a…_

Like some sort of fae creature that’s crawled out from the darkness enveloping the very back of the shelf holding tubs of Ben and Jerry’s, promising to fulfill his deepest desires. Tony feels heat creep across his cheeks, knows the hair at the back of his neck is standing upright under this man’s gaze.

_Fuck._

And yet, as Tony shoulders open the freezer door, eyes stinging at the blast of frigid air, he reaches in blindly to sweep tubs of Cherry Garcia into his cart because his gaze has strayed back to the man who is looking at him – _fucking looking at me like he knows me. Like he **knows** me_.

_Maybe the IRS has caught on to Dad’s tax fraud. Maybe I’m about to be audited._

Tony snorts, fingertips trailing along the inside of the frosted glass surface for a moment, breaking the ice that he wishes the other man would break already, before Tony finds himself under miles of it, suffocating.

_Just like…_

The thought trails off in Tony’s head, a sensation he’s never experienced before, always firmly behind the wheel of his own train of thought. Before he can square his shoulders and advance down the aisle to this Captain America lookalike, the lookalike in question starts walking towards him. He has no cart, not even a basket – it’s like he came into this grocery store looking for Tony. Which would be ridiculous, inconceivable.

Tony’s gaze tracks upwards, up the length of this man who really does bear an incredible resemblance to Captain America – Tony would know, after all, he had a poster of the good Captain hanging above his bed for god knows how many years. Steve Rogers had been the star of many a teenage fantasy, and maybe some more recent ones (Tony would never dream and tell) – but there are differences. There’s lurid scarring, red, pink, white streaks of thickened flesh all along the right side of his neck, like solar flares. Tony follows the scarring to the collar of the blond’s navy blue polo shirt, and he knows it must continue underneath the fabric. Captain America was basically invincible, according to his father, not a scar left on the superhero. Unlike Tony who scars all to easily, who is weak, stupid, nothing.

“Tony.”

Not only does this man look at him like he knows him, he says Tony’s name so softly – the word layered with a multitude of emotions that Tony can barely scratch the surface of. Hell, emotions he’s hardly felt himself, he’s only 24, he has so much more emotion to discover and feel. But this man says his name like it’s a prayer and a curse, threaded with lust, awe, anger, disbelief – love?

_Okay. So. This guy’s fucking crazy. Do I have a stalker? Where the hell is Happy?_

Happy Hogan, his supposed bodyguard, but really one of his best friends. Probably chatting up Tony’s PA, Virginia ‘Pepper’ Potts back at Tony’s cliffside mansion. Because Tony had told Happy he was just running to the store and didn’t need babysitting, nor could he continue to afford Happy’s strict diet of Hot Cheetos. Pepper had thrust his grocery list at him, green eyes rolling, a slight smirk on her bright red lips. Another employee turned best friend. Probably not what Howard Stark had in mind when he had hired them, but Tony is always ruining his father’s best-laid plans.

_Rhodey is gonna get a kick out of this one. Tony Stark, kidnapped in the ice cream aisle by a Captain America fanboy._

“Uh… do I… know you?” Tony asks cautiously, ignoring the voice at the back of his mind that is warning him of the looming bulk of this man, and the fact that his ice cream is melting.

A wry smile crosses the other man’s face, as if this is following a script he had written out before getting behind the wheel and driving to the grocery store, the alarm on his watch about to trill to warn him that Tony would be strolling through the produce section right about now.

“No, not really.” The words sound like they hurt as they leave the other man, barely said on more than a breath. “Steve Rogers.” He extends his left hand, his right arm motionless at his side, a brief look of discomfort crossing his face.

Tony snorts. “Fuck off, man.” He turns back to his cart, grasping at the handle so tightly that his knuckles whiten, and he’s about to push off down the aisle when ‘Steve’ speaks, sounding like he’s talking to himself.

“Do I really look that different?” The deep voice muses, weary and resigned.

With a sigh, Tony’s hands fall away from the handle of the shopping cart, one moving to push through his unruly brown curls. He really wouldn’t have turned around, had ‘Steve’ not sounded so disappointed. Tony is always a sucker for softies – never mind the fact that they usually lull him into a false sense of security and then gaslight the shit out of him. _Gaslit the Shit Out Of, by Tony Stark. Romantic Partners to Avoid Because They Will Literally Make You Feel Insane, by Tony Stark._ Mistakes he’s made time and time again, and here he is, turning around to face this man who has all of Tony’s mental alarms ringing, his vision practically a flood of red flags.

“Aren’t you supposed to be… missing?” A very considerate question, Tony thinks, hand brushing over his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble, he hadn’t gotten around to shaving this morning. _I mean, I could’ve called him a Capsicle or something._

The blond sighs, looking as though his body is deflating, as if he’d been holding half the world’s air in his lungs. “It’s a really long story. Uh, this isn’t exactly going how I’d planned.”

“Are you stalking me?” Tony asks sharply. “It’s my dad you want, anyways, if you really are Steve Rogers. He’s been fucking _yearning_ for you since I was -.” He cuts off abruptly as the other man unbuttons the two top buttons of his polo shirt, reaching for something around his neck, yanking it up over his head. His blond hair, previously brushed back from his forehead, sticks up as the metal beads of the chain tug through the careful style that Tony has a feeling is the other man’s go-to look. The chain slides between the other man’s index and middle fingers, the dogtags and beaten silver ( _wedding?_ ) band clinking together gently as they sway towards Tony, then back towards Steve, and towards Tony again.

Despite himself, Tony reaches out for the dogtags, nudging one aside so that he can read the name stamped into the metal. He frowns slightly, an oil-stained fingernail scraping at the rusty substance caked into the letters, watching some flake and flutter down onto the polished floor below. He hears the other man inhale sharply and glances up, raising an eyebrow.

“Is this blood?”

The man identified as Steven G. Rogers, blood type O – _could be fake dogtags, though. Damn good fakes_ – nods, looking nauseous.

“It’s your blood.”

_I am about to get murdered in the ice cream aisle._

Tony can’t think of an appropriate retort to that sort of statement. What is he supposed to do, point at himself and bat his eyelashes flirtatiously – what, little old me?

Instead…

Tony fingers the ring carefully, the metal worn thin from enduring heavy use, as if it had been worn when it shouldn’t have been. Like if someone had worn it while tearing apart a car engine, or while working on their latest invention… like it had been carefully cleaned, like all of the scrapes and scars had been burnished out by whoever had owned it, until the metal was barely thicker than a couple of sheets of paper.

“Yours, too,” Steve says lowly. “Look, Tony… It’s a long, long story… but I need you to hear it.”

Tony’s hand pulls away slowly, the fluorescent lighting overhead casting the small, healing nicks and purpling bruises along the back of his hand in a garish light. His mouth opens, his breath escapes – but no words are spoken. Tony Stark, rendered speechless by Steve Rogers, across time and space.

A pause that lasts more than a few moments, Tony’s heart beating slow, and then so fast that he can feel it pulsing in his fingertips.

“You’re really – holy **fuck**. You’re really Captain America.” _How is this possible? How could he **know** me? How could that possibly be **my** blood? _And yet, Tony knows, as he looks into the earnest blue eyes of Steve Rogers, that if he scraped the blood off of the dogtags, he would find it to be a perfect match the blood thrumming frantically through the chambers of his heart. He doesn’t know how he knows, but what has Dad always said? Captain America never lied.

Steve smiles. It’s radiant. Tony idly wonders if the supersoldier serum had done something to his teeth along with the rest of him. But that smile makes Tony think that things have returned to Steve’s script.

“Yeah, but – that doesn’t matter,” Steve’s words are as earnest as his expression. “I really, really need to talk to you, Tony. Could we maybe grab coffee?”

Tony swallows, taken aback – Captain America has crawled out of the ice, scarred and worse for wear, and is asking Tony out for coffee. _Don’t be stupid. You’re losing sight of the really fucking important thing, Stark. His dogtags are stained with your blood._

“I have ice cream…” Tony says slowly, cheeks flushing, the words sounding stupid to his own ears. Captain America has been missing for decades, his father’s greatest creation, and Tony is telling him to get lost because his ice cream is melting. For all he knows, Steve could be coming from the future to save his life, or something. “But… uh… You could come to my place? Or we could meet later, if you want.”

Steve slips the dogtags back over his head, buttoning his shirt up slowly, the fingers of his left hand clumsy. _Huh, what’dya know? Some part of Captain America, clumsy._

“I’ll come to yours. Like I said, it’s a long story, it’ll probably take a while to tell.”

That sounds thoroughly ominous to Tony, but he reaches behind him to grab the handle of the shopping cart all the same. The feeling of the plastic against his palm grounds him, he’s talking to Captain America in a grocery store, and Captain America happens to know him, happens to possess a piece of jewelry that apparently belongs to Tony Stark. The thing is, he’s never seen that ring before in his life.

“Well, I’m gonna go check out… Do you want to meet in the parking lot, and then you can follow me to my place? It’s a bit outside of Malibu. Probably a twenty minute drive?” He glances at the cart anxiously, noticing the frost melting on the cartons of ice cream. But he’s planned ahead, he always does, it’s why he has the cold packs and cooler in the trunk of his BMW.

Steve nods, though his lips curve downwards into a small frown, as if the last thing he wants is for Tony to be out of his sight. _Stop imagining things, Stark, Jesus._ And then his frown fades, and he allows Tony to be the one to walk down the aisle first, though Tony can feel Steve trailing behind him, like his own shadow. _But taller. More muscular. And stupid good-looking._

* * *

None of this has gone according to plan. Steve doesn’t know how many times he’s thought that since arriving in this reality. He thought he had everything sketched out – hell, stopping the assassination of the Starks was supposed to be a one-time thing. It turns out, time fights back against being changed, always attempting to return to the original thread. While it’s no longer Bucky trying to bash in Howard Stark’s head, it’s always someone else – HYDRA, a spurned mistress, someone who really doesn’t care for Howard Stark’s business practices – it’s impossible to predict.

Steve sighs, leaning back against the door of his nondescript grey Toyota, running his hand over his face as he waits for Tony to emerge from the grocery store. _Tony._ He hadn’t meant to approach Tony the way he had – but the meet-cute he’d had planned for the produce section is so far in the rearview mirror that it’s barely visible. Tony is a mess of contradictions, a 5’10 bundle of cognitive dissonance that is kindling a headache at the base of Steve’s temples. He’s only 24, for one, a flurry of youthful energy that sped through the grocery store so fast that even Steve had to trot to keep up. But, Tony had hit up his old haunts – a few boxes of mac and cheese here, a bag of Granny Smith apples placed carefully into the cart to avoid bruising the fruit –

_“How the hell do you even eat these things, Tony?” Steve asks, face slowly unscrewing as he swallows a bitter bite of apple, loosening his grip on it as Tony reaches out to snatch it from his hand with a scowl._

_“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re more of a gala guy – or a pink lady – or, heaven forbid – a red delicious.” A loud crunch as Tony takes a huge bite out of the glistening green apple, scowl giving way to a smile as he leans in to kiss Steve._

_“Sour,” Steve murmurs against his lips, pulling Tony closer to him on the couch._

_“Get used to it,” Tony replies, carefully placing his half-eaten apple on the coffee table, sticky fingers threading through Steve’s hair as he deepens the kiss._

\- and then there had been the five cartons of Cherry Garcia that Tony had swept into his cart carelessly. The same flavor Steve had watched him devour countless times, attacking the hardened ice cream with a spoon, digging in insistently, ignoring Steve’s suggestion of letting it sit out on the counter for a minute or two to defrost. That is what had pushed Steve over the edge to speak to Tony, this echo of the man he knew.

He had seen Tony around, of course, before this. Because Steve couldn’t help himself – a quick drive past Tony’s mansion by the sea (so much for the cluttered apartment Steve had imagined for him), a glimpse of Tony running along the beach, or sliding over the hood of his car, expression gleeful as James Rhodes followed after him with a tired shake of his head.

Bucky had warned Steve this morning, calling him from a chilly phone booth in Manhattan, that this was a bad idea. That he should go back to his own time. That this wasn’t going to go the way he had planned. Steve had listened politely, as he always has since getting Bucky back, but he has no plans of going back to a world without Tony. Not if he can live in one with him, even if Tony wants nothing to do with him. Bucky had sighed, cursed under his breath, and hurried off the phone. Howard Stark had a flight to catch, and Bucky was to follow him. A favor to Steve, he had insisted when Steve had made the move to Malibu and Bucky had stayed behind in Brooklyn. Bucky would look out for the Starks, Steve would look out for Tony. Steve also knows that Bucky is searching for Natasha, that they have unfinished business. Steve feels the twinges of guilt he’s tried to bury since arriving, that he too should be looking for Natasha – she is his friend, after all. But he’d left her behind before, and he’s ignoring her now.

Tony emerges from the grocery store, pushing a hand through his hair – longer than Steve has ever seen it, without even a thread of grey. Tony scans the parking lot, brown eyes landing on Steve, a quirk of his lips that could be a smile or a frown from this distance. He raises a hand to Steve before jogging over to his own car, a black BMW parked neatly in a space close to the entrance. There’s another difference, Steve had spaced out during many a fervent explanation of why Audi was the best make of car available on the market. Yet here is Tony Stark, carefully packing away his treasure of ice cream into the cooler in the trunk of his BMW, at least that idiosyncrasy hasn’t changed.

Steve gets behind the wheel once Tony opens the door to his car, looking over at Steve to give him an uncertain wave. He could still back out of this, still turn left when Tony turns right. Steve gets to the stop sign, taking a deep breath as the BMW pulls off to the right, closing his eyes for a moment. His fingers grasp at the indicator, knocking it upwards, the right arrow flashing orange on his dashboard. He has to try.


	2. Chapter 2

Between leaving the grocery store and pulling into his garage, Tony has decided that this is probably not one of his brightest ideas. Take, for instance, the fact that he is bringing a stranger home in the middle of the day, with some of his closest friends waiting inside. Tony has brought people home before, a handful of times, but never men (not to his own home, anyways, imagine the press if _that_ got out). Never mind the fact that he isn’t _bringing_ Steve Rogers home, he’s hearing the man out — he’s ready to settle down and listen to this long, long story that the very thought of gives Tony the heebie jeebies. Tony also has a sinking feeling tinged with paranoia that this story is not one that he should hear — on his drive home, he’s convinced himself that either Steve is from the future or from a parallel universe. Tony did not wake up this morning, fresh from nine glorious hours of sleep, to tempt fate and mess around with whatever rules constrict the universe.

Thankfully, Steve doesn’t try to follow Tony down to the garage. Instead, he parks his car in the driveway and gets out just as Tony descends the ramp leading below his mansion. If he’s quick enough — and he’s damn quick, he ran track while attending boarding school — he can grab all of the groceries out of the back of the car, sprint upstairs, warn Pepper and Happy, and graciously (if not a tad breathlessly) welcome Captain America into his home.

“You have a visitor at the front door, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. informs him coolly as Tony flings himself out from behind the wheel, jogging over to the popped trunk.

“Goddamn it,” Tony mutters under his breath, fingers threading the flimsy plastic handles of his grocery bags up his arms, the thin fabric of his MIT sweatshirt not doing much to insulate him from the discomfort of taking two trips’ worth of groceries upstairs in one. If Tony’s time was his own, his burgeoning AI would be able to lock the front door, to buy Tony some time. As of now, though, J.A.R.V.I.S. is a confidant, much like the man the AI was named after.

_Fuck, when’s the last time I called Jarvis? I should check in on him and Ana. Didn’t I promise Ana I’d visit soon?_

Tony ascends the stairs two at a time, thin plastic handles digging into the muscle of his forearms, his tubs of Ben and Jerry’s betraying him, banding together to knock him in the knees as he attempts to beat Pepper Potts to the front door.

It’s futile, of course, he can hear voices as he bursts into the living room, the gentle flow of the waterfall fixture streaming down the center of the spiral staircase is drowned out by the voices and the sound of Tony’s pulse drumming against his eardrums. Only a few steps away to the kitchen, but he’ll never make it to the front door in time.

The groceries clatter on the marble countertops as Tony shoves the handles down over his wrists, snorting when Happy Hogan’s head pops around the edge of the door leading out to the foyer.

“Some dude’s here,” Happy informs him helpfully, shuffling into the kitchen to grab the bag of Hot Cheetos just barely jutting out from the brim of the nearest grocery bag. So much for Tony ending Happy’s bad habit for him.

“You don’t say,” Tony mutters, brushing past him. He glances over his shoulder at Happy as he heads towards the foyer, the other man already unpacking the groceries to see what other culinary delights Tony had purchased – very distant departures from Pepper Potts’ strictly healthy grocery list. His bodyguard had taken to growing a goatee, it’s coming in quite nicely, and Tony is almost tempted to grow one himself. But could he cope with Rhodey’s constant ribbing if he did? _Well, I’m not gonna grow my hair out like Hap. At least there’s that._

“Tony didn’t mention anybody —,” Pepper’s eyes dart over to Tony as he walks into the foyer, forcing himself to slow down, sneakers squeaking against the freshly waxed floor. “Oh, well, here he is.”

Steve is standing in the doorway, expression one of polite interest, though he can’t seem to stop himself from glancing over at Pepper Potts every few seconds, doing his best to keep a smile off of his face.

_Maybe he knows her too._

“Pepper,” Tony says, clearing his throat as he sidles up next to her. “Meet Steve Rogers.”

Pepper raises one perfectly sculpted auburn eyebrow. While not the biggest comic book fan in the world, the name is familiar enough to her, having had to endure Tony and Rhodey’s constant debates over who would win in hand-to-hand combat (Captain America or Rocky Balboa? _Captain America._ Captain America or Batman? _Captain America._ Captain America or Teddy Roosevelt? _It’s a toss-up._ ).

Steve, with his perfect 1940s manners, tucks the manila folder he’s holding under his arm and offers Pepper his hand to shake. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss…?” He glances over at Tony, waiting for a formal introduction.

“Pepper Potts,” she answers for him, shooting Tony a look that he can’t quite read. _The gist of it is probably ‘What the hell is Captain America doing standing at your front door, Tony?’._

“We, uh — well, it’s a funny story,” Tony says, fumbling for a moment as he tries to find an appropriate explanation for the bizarre situation he now finds himself in. “I was grocery shopping…”

Pepper carefully extracts her hand from Steve’s grasp, nodding with an almost imperceptible sigh.

“Your father called, Tony,” she says as she turns to the entryway table, grabbing her car keys and leather satchel. “He said that he was —.”

“Getting onto a flight, yeah, I know, he sent me his calendar for the month earlier.” Pepper hates it when Tony cuts her off, insisting that despite what he might believe, he cannot read her mind.

“—expecting a call from you, actually,” Pepper’s green eyes flash with obvious irritation. “I told him you’d call as soon as he got settled. Betty will email you. I’ve got to go, do you need anything else from me, _Mr. Stark_?”

Tony manages only a small smirk at the sarcasm seeping through Pepper’s tone. “Absolutely not, Ms. Potts. Stellar work, as always.” He draws himself upright to give her a rigid salute. “See you tomorrow.”

Pepper rolls her eyes, and then smiles at Steve, moving past him when he steps back to let her out. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers. Sorry, I have to head out.”

“Not a problem, Ms. Potts.” Steve flashes a smile at her, turning back to Tony once Pepper is in the driver’s seat of her little blue BMW. Tony pays her handsomely for keeping his life together.

“Pep’s doing an MBA,” Tony explains, nudging the sleeve of his sweatshirt up his forearm to glance at his watch. “Yeah, she has class in forty minutes, and she loves to be early.” Steve’s gaze is fixed on Tony’s watch, or perhaps, less his watch and more his wrist. Or his forearm. Tony clears his throat, Steve blinks, and whatever recollection had cast a thin fog over his blue eyes fades.

“Come in,” Tony says, stepping back, shutting the door behind Steve. “I should introduce you to — HAPPY,” he bellows, shooting Steve an apologetic glance. “Sorry, it’s the most effective way with a house this big.”

“You could always use me, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says dryly, and to his credit, Steve does not seem disturbed by the disembodied voice echoing around them.

“Yeah, I guess — oh look, here’s Hap.”

Happy Hogan, on the other hand, is a big fan of comic books. Once torn away from the PlayStation and asked, in Happy’s view, Captain America could destroy _anybody_ in hand-to-hand combat. After all, Teddy Roosevelt had asthma ( _“How the hell didn’t you guys know that? Where were you in US History class?”_ ). He recognizes Steve instantly, his eyes widening in disbelief, glancing down at his red stained fingers in mortification, the bag of Hot Cheetos thankfully left behind in the kitchen.

“Happy,” Steve’s voice is warm with familiarity, as if he and Happy are old pals. 

“Captain America, sir,” Happy mumbles, wiping his hand furtively on his jeans, but Steve reaches out to shake his hand regardless.

“How did you — when did you — How…?” Happy looks helplessly between Steve and Tony, searching for an explanation, or maybe an ice pick to be clenched in Tony’s hand, frost caking the hems of his jeans. Tony can practically see the synapses firing in Happy’s brain if he stares into the other man’s eyes long enough, a peep beyond the optic disk, along the optic nerve, past the optic chiasma, with a sharp upwards turn into Happy’s cerebrum.

Tony shrugs, the perfect embodiment of _beats me._

“We’re going to debrief,” Tony says, complete bullshit, but official-sounding. “Before, y’know, he gets in contact with my dad.”

Happy frowns for a second, because it doesn’t make any sense, why the hell would Captain America want to debrief with _Tony_ Stark rather than _Howard_ Stark? Perhaps he can tell from Tony’s rare solemn expression and emotionless delivery that it’s best not to ask questions. Tony attempts to soften the blow by wordlessly conveying that he’ll fill Happy in later, and Happy’s telepathic receivers must be operating today, because he nods.

“I’ll be in the security center,” Happy says, chest puffing out and shoulders squaring, Tony doing his best to contain a grin. It once was a security center, but over time it slowly converted itself into Happy’s bedroom. Not that Tony is complaining — he likes having a roommate, and Happy is pretty low maintenance.

Tony glances over at Steve once Happy starts making his way upstairs, gesturing the other man towards the doorway to the right of the kitchen.

“Where’s Rhodey?” Steve asks as he follows after Tony, who tenses slightly at the mention of a man Steve should have no knowledge of. _This is so fucking weird._

“He’s over at Edwards — he’s in the Air Force, y’know? He’s gonna be a colonel, one day, he can really fly.” Tony can’t help the pride in his voice, because his best friend really does kick ass. “Can I get you a drink?” Tony glances over his shoulder at Steve as they enter the living room, fingers trailing over the lacquered lid of the grand piano tucked against the expansive windows looking out over the cliffs, the sea crashing roughly against the rock below, a spray of white foam that is mesmerizing.

“I’m fine, actually,” Steve says quietly, looking around the living room, smiling when he sees the familiar grand piano — the same model had been squeezed into his and Tony’s apartment, at Tony’s insistence. Steve’s bruised hips from walking into the damn thing seemed less aggravating when he would wake in the middle of the night to an empty bed, but with the sound of Tony playing lulling him back to sleep not long after. Tony would play when he was frustrated, or when he was trying to work out a solution to a problem that wouldn’t let him get a moment’s rest.

Tony nods in response, sitting on the piano bench, tilting his head to the white leather couch centered in front of the windows.

“What about you?” Steve asks, sounding genuinely surprised, looking over at the bar cart near the fireplace as if he expects Tony to materialize there.

“Bit early, don’t you think?” Tony asks, consulting his watch again. “It’s not even three o’clock.”

Steve’s smile is one of relief, settling down on the couch with a sigh and placing the manila folder on the coffee table in front of him. Carefully, he pulls out glossy photographs and a small sketchbook. Tony raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t rise from his seat a few feet away, despite the curiosity that has him tapping his fingers against his thigh, an outlet of anxious energy that will soon give way to pacing.

Steve clears his throat, looking down at the pictures of Iron Man strewn across the table, and then back up at Tony, holding his gaze.

“Your parents were murdered on December 16th, 1991.”

* * *

Steve wishes he had taken Tony up on that drink. By the time he’s done talking, the sun has set below the waves behind him, and his throat is so painfully dry that he knows he’ll be hoarse tomorrow. He also wishes that he could read Tony’s mind, because Steve has watched his expression transition from one of polite interest, to surprise, to disbelief, to one of stone. It’s not an expression that Steve is familiar with, Tony’s eyes had always given him away, he had learned to hide them behind dark lenses. But somehow, Tony — _this_ Tony — has mastered his emotions to such an extent that Steve really has no idea what he’s thinking.

There had been the usual tells of anxiety, though, Tony had eventually paced back and forth in front of the couch, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, jaw clenched hard enough that Steve had noticed the jump of taut muscle beneath Tony’s stubbled skin.

Tony pauses in front of the table, picking up a photograph of Mark III of the Iron Man armor, brown eyes scanning rapidly over it, documenting every detail, focusing for a long moment on the miniaturized arc reactor. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, a hint of the manic need to build, create, and improve that Steve is more than familiar with, having staggered out of his apartment one morning to find his prized motorcycle disassembled to its tiniest parts with an oil-stained Tony Stark grinning at him from where he sat on the sidewalk.

“A shame you didn’t bring schematics for this,” Tony tucks the photograph into his pocket, eyes finally focusing on Steve, but they’re so far removed from the warm brown that he’s used to that Steve looks away, a cold sweat chilling him even as heat burns across his cheeks.

“I — didn’t think —.”

“That much is obvious,” Tony snaps, making his way over to the bar cart and pouring himself a drink, his back to Steve, though the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the glass goes on far longer than just a splash to get his nerve back. What if this is what pushes Tony over the edge to alcoholism? What if Steve is to blame for that in this reality?

“What have you come here for?” Tony’s voice is rough, Steve watches his body shudder slightly as the whiskey burns its way down his throat – a reaction that the Tony he knew had never had when drinking, having embraced a liquid diet following the death of his parents. “Absolution? Is that what you want? And why the _fuck_ did you let me die, come to think of it?”

Steve closes his eyes, a question he’s asked himself countless times, the words circling mercilessly around in his mind as darkest night gave way to threads of daybreak. “It was —impossible to avoid, Tony, to get the Soul Stone, a soul had to be exchanged.”

“A soul had to be exchanged,” Tony repeats mockingly, turning to Steve, face pale but for two bright spots of color high on his cheeks. He’s livid. “Does that necessarily mean someone had to die? For fuck’s sake, you’re Captain America! You could’ve made the sacrifice, leapt off the fucking cliff, lived — it would’ve been a sacrifice of your soul, right? Because you were willing to die for it, but we both know you would have lived.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought that?” Steve’s voice is barely more than a whisper, left hand clenching into a fist, overwhelmed with the furious rush of rage that urges him in an oily voice at the back of his mind to leap to his feet and punch this pale imitation of Tony Stark as hard as he can across the jaw. “Do you think I’ve not spent the past three years wishing I’d pulled you away from that edge and jumped myself? Even if I’d died? But you — you were —.”

“Ready to die,” Tony seethes. “Right, so you’ve said. So I ask again, if I was ready to die, to give it all up — what the fuck have you come here for? To pick things up right back where you left off?” Tony stalks forward, whiskey sloshing over the edge of his glass, splashing against his thigh, soaking into the denim. Work roughened hands grab the sketchbook, flipping it open to a drawing that he’d stared at for a long while as Steve spoke. Tony Stark, older, greyer, sprawled out across the bed he and Steve shared in their Paris hideout. Sheets gathered around his hips, forearm slung across his eyes to block out the light. The thin circle of scar tissue from the removal of his arc reactor as well as the radiation of shrapnel scars pale amidst the shading of his chest. Tony’s finger stabs at the center of his sketched chest, charcoal smudging against the paper from the force of his touch. 

“I am not this man. I do not know who he is. I have no interest in — in — in whatever it is you want from me.” 

This is not going according to plan. Steve’s hand shakes as he reaches out to pull the sketchbook away from Tony, not wanting the rest of his memories smeared away. They’re all he has left of the Tony Stark he knew.

“Tony — I won’t lie to you —.”

“Seems like you made quite the habit of that in your time. Glad you’re trying to break it,” Tony replies as he brings the glass up to his lips, lips that Steve had kissed until they were swollen, until Tony was breathless and gasping his name. He blinks, forcing those thoughts away — they’ll only hurt.

“I won’t lie to you,” Steve restarts, attempting to keep himself from snapping at Tony —he’s not the same man, that much is true, but he shares common experiences with the Tony he knew, the Tony he loved. He deserves honesty and respect, even if he’s doing his best to get under Steve’s skin, even though he’s looking at him with a maddening mixture of fury and pity. “I came here hoping… to save your parents, of course, to spare you from what… what ultimately happened to you. But I miss you so fucking much, Tony,” Steve’s voice breaks, hand fumbling as he shoves the photos and sheets of paper back into the manila folder along with his precious sketchbook.

“Get out.” Tony’s voice is a snarl, he grabs the sleeve of Steve’s shirt and attempts to haul him to his feet, the glass of whiskey falling to the floor with a startling shatter, shards of glass spinning across the shining wood. “Do you hear me?! Get the fuck out!”

“Tony,” Steve nearly drops the folder, but Tony catches it and presses it to Steve’s chest, shoving Steve back as he gets to his feet. “Don’t do this, please.”

“I don’t know you!” Tony shouts, both hands now pressed against Steve’s chest, shoving him backwards out of the living room, brown eyes wild.

Steve doesn’t know what to do — he knows what he _has_ to do, he has to leave, before Tony takes a swing at him. Steve had been on the receiving end of Tony’s right hook, the scar above his eyebrow smarting at the recollection. But this can’t be how it ends — he can’t have gone through all of this, labored over his plans, considered each word he would say to Tony Stark, for the love of his life to shove him out of the Malibu mansion Steve had never pictured him in after Steve’s intervention in his life.

“Wait, Tony…” Steve’s back hits the front door, he knows he only has a few seconds before Happy Hogan comes sprinting down the stairs — and if Happy and Tony team up, they could probably get a few punches in, Steve’s right arm not being much help these days. He shoves the folder under his arm, reaching into his pocket, sweaty hand grasping at the sticky note he’d scrawled his phone number across earlier before knocking at Tony’s front door. Tony stares at the sticky note like it’s something repulsive, a piece of roadkill Steve had scraped off of the steaming asphalt with his bare hands and offered to Tony like it’s a dish from a Michelin Star restaurant.

He takes it, though, and Steve feels hope flutter in the pit of his stomach. But then, Tony’s fingers — the same fingers that had created Iron Man, that had signed the Sokovia Accords, that had brushed lovingly against Steve’s cheek for just a moment as Tony pitched himself backwards into the chasm on Vormir — curl around the square of paper and crumple it into a tiny ball, palm tilting to drop it to the floor. He reaches behind Steve, grabs the handle of the front door, and flings it open.

Steve’s heart thuds painfully in his chest as he backs out beyond the threshold, noticing the way Tony’s hands are curled into fists, his right bicep tensing as though he’s preparing to cock his arm back and punch Steve with all his might if Captain America doesn’t vacate the premises immediately.

“Tony.” This is his last chance to say it, at least to a living, breathing Tony Stark. “I love you.”

The rage fades from Tony’s eyes, his hands uncurl from fists, tension seeping out of him. He looks at Steve, and Steve remembers being on the receiving end of this look —

_“I’m not marrying you.”_

_“Keep the ring?”_

_“Christ, Steve. It’s like you don’t hear me.”_

— “You don’t **know** me.” Tony’s voice is soft, but the click of the front door as it swings shut between them is deafening.


	3. Chapter 3

“And then —,” Tony comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the boxing ring, the mat bouncing up and down beneath his feet. “And then he said that he loved me!”

A flash of purple and then Tony’s vision starbursts as Rhodey’s fist connects with his left cheek, sending him flying back into the ropes, sliding down them until he’s sprawled across the mat with a dazed expression.

Rhodey’s fuzzy form looms over him, coming into focus when he nudges Tony in the side with his shoe. “Cheap shot.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tony turns his head and spits out his mouthguard, golden rubber glittering with saliva and blood. “Rhodey, you asshole. You busted my lip!”

“I did,” Rhodey replies apologetically, squatting next to him, grinning like an idiot. “You left yourself open, though. You also didn’t call for a timeout.”

Tony reaches up to prod at his bleeding lower lip, which is difficult when wearing boxing gloves. He instead manages to punch himself lightly on the lip, groaning in pain, resting his head back against the mat.

“C’mon,” Rhodey hooks a purple-gloved hand under his arm, attempting to lever Tony into a sitting position. “You’re being a baby.”

“What the fuck do they teach you in the Air Force?” Tony’s voice is muffled as he bites at the Velcro strap of his right boxing glove, tugging it off of his hand so that he can properly assess the damage to his face with gingerly probing fingertips.

“Not to drop my arms in the middle of a sparring match,” Rhodey replies shortly, pulling Tony up onto his feet. “It’s not that bad. Well… It’s kind of bad. But it’s not like you’ve got a big gala to go to this weekend, or anything, huh?”

"You watch your back,” Tony grumbles, forcing his hand back into the glove, waving it threateningly at Rhodey. “Get in your corner, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Rhodey raises his hands, teeth barred behind his matching purple mouthguard, dancing back towards the opposite corner. “So, hang on — you’re telling me that you got fucked by Captain America?”

“Not _me_ ,” Tony says emphatically, shaking his head to clear away his double vision, blood splattering across the mat. “Some other me. From a different time, or a different universe. It wasn’t exactly clear.”

Rhodey snorts. “You gotta admit. It’s ironic. Mouthguard?” 

“Ring the fucking bell and put your gloves up,” Tony replies, kicking his mouthguard off the mat as he dances on the balls of his feet.

Rhodey raises one gloved hand, knocking it against the air. “Ring, ring.”

Tony charges at Rhodey just as Pepper walks into the gym, her heels clicking neatly as she makes a beeline to the ring. Tony throws a punch, but somehow Rhodey has dodged it — even worse, when Tony’s arm is raised, Rhodey curves his body under it, and he has Tony thrown across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Tony lets out an undignified shriek, gloves beating against Rhodey’s back while blood rushes dizzily to his head.

“Hey, Pep,” Rhodey says casually, leaning against the ropes. “Need Tony?”

“Yes,” Pepper says, arms crossed over her chest, and her tone is not best pleased. Rhodey turns so that Tony is facing Pepper, who looks impassively down at his red, sweaty, bloody face. “You didn’t call your father, Tony. And who gets the phone call to get chewed out by Betty? Me. So now I have to chew you out. That was a week ago!”

“Put me down,” Tony stops pounding at Rhodey’s back, Pepper is not in the mood for their roughhousing, in fact, she seems rather annoyed with him. Tony lands on his feet effortlessly as Rhodey tips him off of his shoulders, not needing (but appreciating) Rhodey’s steadying hand on his shoulder.

Tony leans up against the ropes, pulling his tank top up so that he can use the hem to gently dab blood off of his chin. Pepper, to her credit, keeps her eyes fixed on his face despite the extended flash of his tanned abdomen close enough to eye-level. _Despite the fact that I supposedly dated — date? — her for years — fuck, imagine that. Me and Pepper._

“I forgot,” Tony lowers his tank top — it’s hopeless, anyways, he can feel a fresh trickle of blood slowly, warmly dripping down his chin, split lip smarting. “I’m sorry, Pepper. I don’t mean for you to get in trouble. It’s a reflection on me, more than anything. You know that.”

Pepper sighs, her eyes closing for a moment, and Tony imagines that she’s doing some split-second meditation to keep herself from climbing up into the ring and laying him out herself. _She probably could, too. She’s got the height advantage._

“He’s still in Munich, anyways. But…”

“But…” Tony echoes, heart sinking. What had Steve said?

_“I don’t know what to do, Tony — but there’s always someone trying to kill him. Sometimes while your mother is there, she’d be collateral damage. I’ll protect them as best I can, but it’s a lot harder than I… thought it would be_.”

“But Obadiah has scheduled the jet to take off at five sharp, and you’re supposed to be on it. He wants you at the office first thing in the morning. Something about the propulsion for the latest missiles not being up to par.”

Relief wars with anger, burning deep in his chest. His relationship with Howard Stark is complicated, to put it simply, but the thought of his father dying — thus thrusting Tony into the limelight that had, according to Steve, led to his downfall, is frightening. _And I love Dad. Hate him, of course. Want to be him. But love him, too._ As for the missiles, well, it seems like Tony will have to put his foot down again. Not that he hasn’t already tried, several times. No matter how insistent he is that he wants nothing to do with the weapons development division of Stark Industries, no matter how detailed and well-prepared his arguments are, he gets laughed out of the room by Obie and thrown out of the room by his father.

Uncle Obie. According to Steve, his Brutus. According to Steve, dear Uncle Obie of the lingering touches after one too many drinks actually conspires to have him kidnapped, held for ransom, and murdered. But, Tony escapes with the suit… The suit.

The photograph he’d kept from Steve’s folder is currently sitting on his desk in his workshop, alongside rough sketches and potential blueprints — and the crumpled sticky note he had rescued after a night spent pacing the house. The suit had monopolized his every waking thought since that long conversation with Steve Rogers, aside from the occasional jarring recollection of that disturbingly intimate drawing of an older Tony Stark fast asleep. Tony Stark, a super hero. Iron Man. The idea is so tempting, so seductive, that Tony can’t help but be drawn to it. He wants to be better, wants to help people, wants to undo some of the more repulsive and reprehensible aspects of his father’s seemingly eternal legacy. He could do that as Iron Man. There are hurdles, of course — but a major one could be solved by this trip. A fortuitous, unintentional gift dropped into his lap by the man who betrays him in an alternate reality. Because if Tony can create the suit, then Steve won’t be from the future – can’t be from the future, because Tony will be shattering the timeline so far beyond the slender cracks that Steve had sent through it by saving his parents in 1991, that Steve’s timeline will be unsalvageable.

“I guess I should pack…” Tony trails off, hands grasping at the ropes, split lip forgotten — how to go about this tactfully? How much research he can do if he gets onto his father’s computer — could he get answers to all of the questions that he has? The arc reactor is an embarrassment to his father, tucked away in its own building in the far back corner of Stark Industries’ campus, left to gather dust and fade into obscurity.

“I’ve taken the liberty of packing you a bag,” Pepper informs him, stepping back as he ducks under the ropes and leaps to the floor, landing gracefully — his movements have always been effortless, thanks to a few years of ballet in his childhood ( _“Christ, Maria, you can’t keep him in those classes, he’s not a girl.”)_ followed by track and field up until MIT ( _“Fine, but I’m not going to sit on my ass and watch him **run**.”_). 

“You might want to do something about the lip, though,” Rhodey now sounds guilty — though he shouldn’t be, neither of them had expected an impromptu summons. “And — what are you gonna do?”

Tony reaches up to touch his lip gently, the flesh swollen and hot against his fingertip. Rhodey’s question isn’t about this meeting in New York, Tony can tell that much — Rhodey wants to know what he’s going to do about Steve Rogers.

“I don’t know,” Tony replies as he walks towards the door, boxing gloves hitting the floor with a thud, followed by a soft sigh from Pepper and a mutter about not being his housekeeper. He had intended to never speak to Steve Rogers again, to forget about the encounter entirely — but it’s difficult. How do you forget Captain America confessing his love for you, blue eyes damp and desperation evident? Not only that, how do you forget about your own invention, one that you _need_ to build, like you need air? So, he had scooped the little ball of paper off the floor, smoothed it out, traced his fingers over the numbers Steve had written carefully across the paper. He had kept the man’s number because… because… because he has questions, that’s it. If he ever wants to seek out answers to those questions, he’ll need that phone number — so he had kept it.

True to her word, Pepper has placed his packed suitcase outside of his bedroom door, handle pulled up and waiting for him to grasp it and drag it downstairs to his car. _Oh, Christ, she probably won’t even let me drive myself because she’ll think I’ll run for the hills._ So, the handle of the suitcase is instead waiting for him to grasp it and drag it to the driveway where Happy will be parked in his Rolls Royce, the radio blasting a play-by-play of whatever football game, baseball game, or Grand Slam tennis match is happening this afternoon.

He glances at his watch, the minute hand speeding along, feeling like his life is ticking away. Because he knows everything that’s going to happen to him — or at least, everything that was supposed to happen to him. “Thirty minutes,” he says under his breath as he pulls his tank top over his head, pitching it in the general direction of his laundry hamper, his shorts and boxers joining it on the floor just shy of the hamper. _Well, I was never great at basketball. Can’t be perfect_. Thirty minutes is more than enough time to take a shower, to collect his thoughts, to build up the wall he hides behind whenever he steps foot on Stark Industries property.

* * *

“Tony!” Obadiah Stane stalks towards him, arms outstretched, a cigar clenched between his perfectly straight teeth. Tony can remember, some of his earliest memories, Obie giving him a shark’s grin, yellow and sharp — but then Stark Industries had started making some _real_ money, thanks to the innovations of the weapons division, and that grin turned into a red carpet ready smile.

Tony’s heart starts to race as Obadiah wraps his arms around him in a bear hug, trying not to tense as ash from the man’s cigar lands dangerously close to the skin of his neck, but thankfully the collar of his sports jacket protects him — worn to offset the hole-ridden Metallica shirt and ratty jeans he has on. He reaches up once Obie releases him to pat the ashes away, preferring not to burst into flames this morning.

“Damn, son, what happened to you?” Obadiah frowns as he grabs Tony’s chin with his thumb and index finger, holding his head still as he leans in to examine Tony’s scabbed over lip and bruised cheek. “Someone got a punch in, huh? Good thing your dad isn’t here, he’d expect you to have put the other guy in the hospital.”

Tony squirms internally, shoulders tensing as Obie’s thumb digs into his chin before he lets go. His touch now carries a deeper level of vileness to Tony, now that he knows…

_“You didn’t like to talk about it very much, and it was before I knew you, so I don’t have all of the details. Just what you gave in a debrief to Phil Coulson afterwards. Apparently, Obadiah used some sort of… new Stark Industries technology, something that could induce full-body paralysis. And then he… well, he took the arc reactor out of your chest and left you to die. He’d created a suit of his own,” Steve shakes his head. “That’s all I know. But the way you avoided talking about it makes me think that something else happened, like… I don’t know, like Obadiah rubbed your face in it, or something.”_

It’s easy to imagine Obadiah Stane relishing his own victory and stolen genius with Tony powerless to fight back. Tony reaches up to rub at his chin, stubble scratching at his fingertips as he tries to scrub away Obadiah’s touch, knowing that the pervasive scent of cigar smoke will not fade from his skin for days.

“Yeah, I guess so. Something about shitty propulsion on the Solars?” If anyone is looking to get put into the hospital as a result of Tony’s fists, it’s Uncle Obie, as he slings an arm around Tony’s shoulders and guides him down the hallway towards his father’s office.

“That’s right, m’boy. I don’t know all the ins-and-outs, but your pop left detailed instructions on what he wants you to do. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight until it’s done.” Obie sucks on his teeth, adopting an apologetic expression, though his blue eyes remain as cold as ever. _Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? His eyes never change. He could be crying, for God’s sake, and his eyes would make you think he never feels anything. Nothing except anger. Envy._

“And what if I don’t want to do it?” He doesn’t mean for the words to come out as an impetuous whine, but orders from Howard Stark never bring out the best in him.

Obadiah glances over at him, raising an eyebrow as he shoulders open the heavy oak doors leading into his father’s office. “Don’t think that you have much of a choice, kid.”

Tony ducks out from under Obadiah’s arm, storming into the darkened office, feet sinking into the sumptuous carpet. The carpet, the thick doors, the even thicker walls — all to soundproof Howard Stark’s office. Tony knows exactly what has gone in here over the years, as does his mother. Being in here makes his stomach roil, his hands fists at his sides, fury pulse through his veins.

He blinks as the white lights overhead flash on, Obadiah tsking from where he stands by the light switches.

“Christ, he left the place a mess.” _As if your office is much better, Obie._

Tony doesn’t care how messy his father’s office is. In fact, if Obadiah hadn’t been sent to supervise him, Tony would probably try his hand at flipping tables and tearing up documents just to experience the brief flare of vengeful satisfaction that would come at inconveniencing his father. _But I wouldn’t really be inconveniencing the old man, would I? No, I’d really be inconveniencing Betty._ Betty, his father’s loyal personal assistant — somehow still working despite being in her 70s. A decision made to appease Maria Stark before Tony had been born, learned from insidious gossip as he grew older, barely contained glee spewing from Howard Stark’s underappreciated employees. An affair with his _much_ younger personal assistant, press buyoffs, a nice hearty settlement and an NDA for the PA in question, and her signature scrawled along the bottom of her pre-prepared, lawyer approved, resignation letter.

It’s easy to understand why the Tony Stark from Steve’s reality had the Manhattan Stark Industries campus razed to the ground only months after his parents’ funeral, why he had packed everything up and headed west. A nicer climate to be sure, but a blank slate. New people, new places, and not a single bad memory to be found by walking into an office.

“Think you could have this done by lunch? We could go grab some pizza,” Obadiah suggests as he plops himself down on the brown leather couch in the far left corner of Howard’s office, reaching out lazily to pluck a book from the tall shelves built into the wall.

Tony stares over at his father’s burnished steel worktable, hands on his hips, not so eager to get to work on the missile waiting for him on its surface. Stark Industries’ Solar Missiles, a stupid name — not that anyone asked for Tony’s opinion. But the first of its kind, imbued with Stark Industries’ patented camouflage technology that should allow it to simply fade away with the sky, be carried on the sun’s rays, and knock out a suburban neighbourhood with ease. If the damn thing could ever get off the ground, that is.

“Not sure.” Tony’s eyes flick over to his father’s computer at his desk, calculating how long it would take for him to run through his father’s standard passwords, find the files on the arc reactor ( _probably password protected, if he even kept them_ ), come up with non-standard passwords that his father would create to grant access to **those** particular files, read them, and then remove all evidence of his brief visit. “Maybe you could run out and get pizza around lunchtime. Promise I won’t scamper.”

Obie huffs, “Don’t know about that, m’boy. You’ve tried that one on me before.”

“Oh, come on, Obie. I’m good for it,” Tony says as he picks up the missile, the white carbon fiber casing smooth against his palms. Something so little that could bring about so much death and destruction. Blood is staining Tony’s hands, and it makes him sick — makes him want to fling the missile down and storm out of the room, Obadiah be damned.

_Soon. You can give this all up soon. You just have to get the specs on the arc reactor, and then you never have to come back here._ His father can cut him off, write him out of the will, whatever. But Tony has his own ways of making money — and despite what his father insists, he _knows_ that once he finally cracks artificial intelligence, the money will start pouring in. The last thing Howard will want to deal with is a rival — maybe Stark International… _I’ll just let that idea simmer_.

Tony sets the missile carefully back down onto the table, reaching out for the single sheet of paper left beside it, his father’s handwriting screaming at him in jagged black ink.

**DO NOT SCREW THIS UP.**

Tony smiles mirthlessly, flipping the paper over to look at the blank back of the sheet. _So much for instructions_.

“Definitely gonna take longer than lunchtime, Obie. How about that pizza?”

A harrumph from the couch that Tony takes as a ‘fine’. Reaching under the table for his father’s toolbox, Tony glances over at the computer one more time. _Soon._

* * *

A month and a half of wallowing — entirely too long, to be honest. Steve would be embarrassed, were it not for the fact that he had never really mourned Tony Stark when he died — so certain that he would be reunited with the other man in a matter of days after his passing. Naïve, to think that everything would happen the way he wanted it to — arrogant, even, to think himself such an expert on Tony that _this_ Tony would have no autonomy, would fall in line at the snap of Steve’s fingers.

He looks down at his right hand, willing his thumb to run over his middle and index fingers, to snap as they had over three years ago, destroying Thanos and his army so effortlessly. All that they had lost, reduced to a snap of Steve’s fingers. His jaw sets, left hand grasping at right wrist.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Just fucking move.”

Nerves could heal over time, Steve knew from the brief dip into neuroanatomy and neuroscience he had taken in his spare time. He had also hoped that some dormant regenerative aspect of the serum would activate upon recognizing the massive amount of damage the right side of his body had endured. No dice. If he’s completely honest with himself, he had also insisted on doing nothing while in his own time because he had been so certain that Tony would jump at the chance to try to help him. In short, Steve had been a fool. He understands that now, sat on the couch, glowering at the half filled cardboard boxes surrounding him in rings radiating out from the couch. Packing up the entire apartment had not seemed like such a big deal when he had settled things with Bucky over the phone two weeks ago.

Steve was to take over their Howard Stark reconnaissance while Bucky — well, Bucky wouldn’t entirely explain what he planned on doing in Moscow, just that he had business to attend to and Steve shouldn’t worry himself. Recalling the numerous blows his body had taken from Bucky’s metal arm as he had fought to save the Starks’ lives, Steve isn’t particularly worried. Bucky could take very good care of himself — but if he ran into someone from HYDRA… If he was recognized, brought back into the fold…

A hiss of pain. Steve’s left hand had curled around his right wrist so tightly that his fingernails were biting into the muscle at the base of his thumb, the muscles of his forearm so atrophied that his fingers could close the gap easily. He also could’ve pulverized the bones of his right wrist without knowing, without feeling any pain.

“Anything?” He asks his hand, well aware that talking to a body part could be considered suspect, if not outright crazy. “No?” He sighs. “Okay then.”

It won’t be so bad, going back to New York — moving on. He’ll get a place in Brooklyn, just like old times. Here in Malibu, he feels exposed, surrounded by the ultrarich always on the hunt for gossip. Back home, he’ll blend in with the crowd, another New Yorker living a busy life that holds no room for inconvenience or idle chatter. He’ll look up Peggy, go and see how she’s doing. He won’t try anything, she has a life, a happy one. But he could do with a friend, with Bucky away. He can make himself useful, get involved with the V.A. — as Grant Stevens, of course. Grant Stevens, the vet who got caught in an IED explosion while serving. The cover story practically writes itself. Then there’s Natasha, Bucky’s probable ‘business’ in Moscow — but how to befriend her without scaring her off, as he had done with Tony? At least Peggy _knew_ him.

Steve sighs, rubbing his palm against his thigh, trying to soothe away the half-moon indents his fingernails had left behind. In a minute or two, he needs to go finish packing up the living room and kitchen, if he’s not sucked into the episode of Friends playing on the crappy box TV sitting on a small bookshelf that Bucky had dubbed their entertainment center. It’s strange, having sat and bingewatched Friends with Tony, to think that he’s watching it now as a new episode airs every week.

The telephone rings.

Steve groans, leaning over to the end table and scooping up the bright yellow receiver, grunting as he yanks at the tangled spiral cord.

“This fucking thing — what, Buck? I told you earlier, I _am_ packing — it’s just taking longer than I expected.” Steve says grumpily when he’s finally untangled enough of the cord to get the phone up against his ear.

The line crackles, then a throat on the other end clears loudly.

“Going on a trip?” Tony Stark’s voice drawls in his ear — which is a nice change from when he had last spoken to Tony, but the deepness in the other man’s voice sends shivers down his spine and ignites the faintest flame of desire. An automatic reaction, totally out of his hands, and — yes, _there’s_ the pain at the very forceful reminder from whatever cold part of his brain in charge of keeping Steve in check that this Tony Stark is not _his_ Tony Stark.

“Moving, actually,” Steve says cautiously, not quite sure where this conversation is headed. Their last conversation had seemed quite final — though… Steve smiles slightly, imagining Tony returning to the front door, picking up the crumpled note with a huff, smoothing it out, and saving it.

“Oh, really?” Tony sounds distracted, there’s a loud clatter in the background, a muffled curse. “Out of the area?”

“Yeah.” Steve can’t stop himself from hoping, as stupid as it is to keep holding on to hope. “Permanently.”

“Oh.” Tony’s voice is wooden, and for a few moments, the only sound is his slow and even breathing. Steve closes his eyes, listening to the sound — he had taken it for granted, all the times he had elbowed Tony in the side in the middle of the night, a desperate attempt to get Tony to stop snoring. Steve should have stayed up all night, listening to the jagged sounds, just to know that Tony was alive beside him.

“Uh…” Steve finally makes a sound, if only to prompt Tony into speaking, to divulging the real reason for his call.

“That’s too bad.”

Steve’s grip tightens on the receiver, hope blooming despite his best intentions. _Is it_? He wants to ask that so badly, mouth opening to speak, but mercifully spared from embarrassing himself by Tony speaking again.

“I had a few questions that I was hoping you could answer. Now that, y’know, I’ve processed everything.”

“Sure,” Steve says eagerly. “Sure, I can answer whatever it is you want to know. Maybe not as… y’know, scientific, as the reality might’ve been.” He pauses, frowning. “Don’t ask me anything about math.”

Tony laughs, Steve’s eyes drift closed. Tony’s laughter – another sound he had taken for granted.

“No, nothing like that. Cap’s more of a strategy guy than a calculus guy — you left that to my dad…” Tony clears his throat again, and when he speaks, there’s something in his tone that Steve is almost sure he can identify as excitement, barely contained. “Did I ever crack J.A.R.V.I.S., you know, my —.”

“—AI,” Steve finishes. “Yeah, you did. You integrated him — it — them — ?”

“Any of those are fine,” Tony replies distractedly, the frantic scratching of pencil against paper audible over the tone.

“Well, J served as the operating system for your suits. A direct interface, for your HUD — your —.”

“—Heads up display,” Tony replies, and now Steve can almost see his grin. “Good, I just needed to know that it’s possible. I’m so close, almost there, but lately I’ve felt… I don’t know, like I’ve hit a wall.”

“Gone swimming yet?” Steve leans his head back against the couch cushion, phone resting between his ear and his shoulder, fingers running slowly through his hair.

Tony harrumphs, Steve knows he had caught him off guard with information that no one, barring a handful of people, should know. “Not yet,” he mutters.

“You’ve tried playing the piano, I’m sure.”

“… Yes,” Tony drags the word out. “You think…?”

“Sure, swimming or playing always worked for you. Or going on a run, but when I knew you, you saved that particular torture for a problem you considered nearly insolvable. And then you’d spend the rest of the day asleep on the couch.”

Tony hums, the pencil stilling against the paper. “You seem to have come from a world with access to fantastic technology. Why didn’t you — uh…” The scratch of fingernails against stubble, Steve imagines the quirk of Tony’s eyebrow, the shift of his adam’s apple as he swallows. “Do something about your arm? I’m sure there are great prosthetics…”

“There are…” Steve tugs at the phone cord again, wrapping the coils around his finger. “Look, I could give you an honest answer, but it might piss you off.”

Tony hums again. “Fortunately for you, I’m in a very good mood. Technological breakthrough, that sort of thing. Go on, tell me.”

“Like I said when I saw you last…” Steve’s teeth grind together for a moment, really not wanting to be yelled at by Tony again, it was unpleasant. “I — uh — miss you, right? So, I kinda… Had hoped, like you said, to pick things up where we left off… where I left off with… that Tony.”

He moves the phone away from his ear quickly, expecting a deafening explosion. There’s nothing but another harrumph, distant this time — a normal volume. That’s promising.

“So,” Steve continues, speaking faster now, worried that his good luck will fade before he finishes, that Tony’s temper will flare. “I had hoped that you and I would ultimately work something out together. Because I know that… anything you built would’ve been years ahead whatever… Whatever I had access to there,” he finishes lamely, hand now covering his eyes.

Tony hums a third time. There’s a tapping noise, Steve figures it must be Tony’s index finger against the back of the receiver, drumming against it as he thinks.

“That’s kinda what I figured,” Tony finally says, and Steve’s hand falls away, eyes wide with surprise.

“Really?”

"Yeah, from what you told me, I seemed like a pretty smart guy,” Tony’s smirking, Steve can tell by his tone. “Anyways.” The smirk drops away, Tony turning somber. “That’s another thing I’ve been working on. I have a few ideas for it, and I think one of them might work. When are you planning on moving?”

Steve sits up, holding the phone against his ear, plastic slipping against the thin sheen of sweat coating his palm. “I hadn’t really hammered out a date yet, but… before the end of the month, ideally.”

“Alright, hang on a second.” Muffled rattling, the ripping of paper, Tony’s sharp exhalation expressing momentary impatience. “Okay, I’m looking at next week. You free on Wednesday? I should have something drawn up by then, but I wanna take a preliminary inspection.”

“Inspection? Wednesday? Uh… Where?”

“My workshop. At my house – but… you probably knew that already. Wednesday work for you, around 2?”

Steve shakes his head, knowing that his schedule is wide open, but hesitant to accept. “Why are you doing this, Tony?”

There’s a long silence, Steve expects the dial tone to burr in his ear — perhaps a strange attempt at a prank call by Tony.

“Well,” Tony says slowly, fingers tapping against something — not the receiver of the phone, no, the sound is too… clear, sharp. Like he’s tapping against glass. “I — the other me — he obviously cared about you very much. I like to think that he was a good guy. I… wouldn’t want to let him down, I guess. It’s stupid.” A hint of Tony’s temper, directed at himself rather than at Steve. “I’m doing it as a favor to him, you can either accept it or not, I don’t care.”

Tony must care, though, because he’s offering to help Steve — for no reason at all, except because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, that it’s what he would’ve done, had he been the Tony Steve had come to the past looking for.

“Wednesday at 2. Your place. I’ll be there.”

Tony’s chair squeaks, Steve knows he’s leaning forward, scribbling down a note for their meeting in his coffee-stained appointment book, rescued from trashcans countless times by Pepper Potts.

“Great,” Tony says, all business and professionalism. “I’ll see you then.”

Before Steve can say goodbye, Tony has hung up, the dial tone beeping at him. He pulls the phone away from his ear, mouth slightly ajar, expression one of disbelief.

Slowly, carefully — as if one wrong move will awaken him from what must be a pleasant dream he’s enjoying while fast asleep on the couch — Steve places the handset back on the hook, not quite believing his luck.

He glances over at the boxes surrounding him, he’ll get to them eventually — but for now, if this is a dream… Steve’s left hand closes over his right wrist, blue eyes focused on the livid scarring across his palm, trailing over his now useless fingers.

“Move,” he commands, gaze so intense that any mortal would crumble under it. His fingers remain motionless. But perhaps not for much longer.


End file.
